Walking (or otherwise) Wounded
by kerithwyn
Summary: Of all the therapy centers in all the towns in all the world, he walked into hers. Barbara Gordon [Oracle]/John Reece.


Fandom: DCU/Person of Interest  
Characters: Barbara Gordon [Oracle]/John Reece  
Rating: T  
Summary: Of all the therapy centers in all the towns in all the world, he walked into hers.  
Notes: Written for Porn Battle 2014. Prompts: sparring, grace, scars.

* * *

She hated the necessity, but it was inarguably true that left to her own devices, Barbara would work from her chair all day and through most nights. That would be a fast path to losing the strength and mobility she had left, so at least three times a week she braved the outside world as far as the very private, very exclusive resort club in north Jersey that also offered very private, very exclusive physical therapy. Bruce had paid for the privilege in perpetuity and Barbara was perfectly willing to use the facility on his largess; the alternatives were far too public.

Other clients came and went over the years. Barbara had been coming long enough to know all the staff, their life stories and the names of their kids. What they hadn't told her in person she'd discovered on her own. No one was going to put their hands on her body without her knowing the minutia of their lives.

Most of the time, she investigated new clients only long enough to establish their bona fides. Barbara protected her privacy fiercely and anyone who came here was looking for the same courtesy. She saw movie stars, political figures, and Olympic athletes pass through over the years, resenting them only a little when they were discharged.

The new arrival who came in on a Wednesday afternoon was none of those. He moved like military, but stiffly, the result of whatever hidden injury had brought him here. He was as tall as Bruce, and had the same habit of slouching to hide his (to her eye) obvious strength. Special Forces, she would bet. Likely retired, but still active in some capacity.

He was immediately far more interesting than anyone else she'd seen here. It was, Barbara thought, her fate to be constantly confronted by stunning dark-haired, blue-eyed men.

Like most of the clients, from the moment of arrival he was focused on his own recovery. The staff was too well trained to gossip, but after seeing him move through the facility on the way to his evaluation, Barbara was willing to estimate at least one gunshot wound, probably near-fatal. Shot in the line of duty, but the more she surreptitiously watched him, the more certain she was that duty had very little to do with any official agency.

She was intimately familiar with the type, after all.

Barbara made herself available for contact if he cared to take the opportunity, dawdling long enough to be at the exit when he finished his session.

She wasn't surprised when he stopped on his way out. He'd been checking her out too.

"Barbara Gordon," she said, watching his face for a sign of recognition. "I wanted to wish you luck."

He nodded politely, his eyes never dropping to her wheelchair. "John Randall." Then he paused, his head tilting minutely. "I have another appointment. Good to meet you," he said, already half out the door and moving as quickly as his injuries allowed.

"His master's voice," she murmured after him, and made her own escape.

"John Randall" had an excellent résumé as a bodyguard, but Barbara had created enough false identities to spot a fake. It was, she conceded after several hours of digging, a very good fake. She'd discovered enough evidence to identify him by activities, if not by real name: Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome been working as a vigilante out of New York, code-named by authorities as The Man in the Suit.

Which was cute. And, she had to admit, more stylish than the usual tights-and-spandex act.

But what interested Barbara far more was the difficulty she'd had trying to trace his movements. Someone very good had built "John's" alias, but even more remarkable, at several points it seemed as if the network itself was redirecting her search efforts.

Barbara had encountered sentient computer systems before. "I'm not done with you," she told yet another recalcitrant search string. But she had actual work to do and people who were depending on her. Uncovering the secrets of another mysterious and very mortal vigilante would have to wait.

By the time her next therapy session rolled around, Barbara had decided to take on the problem the old-fashioned way: head on.

The possibly-sentient computer was one thing. The person behind it was another, and Barbara had narrowed down the field of suspects to the most probable and startling prospect: the mysterious hacker who'd exposed ARPANET and who'd been tentatively identified as the brains behind IFT's meteoric rise. Barbara had discovered a number of possible aliases, most of them using the first name "Harold," but the system had robustly balked at spitting up more than that. The network seemed almost protective of the man Barbara had to assume was its creator.

She could respect that. And since the few scraps of intel she'd assembled indicated that "Harold" and "John" were White Hats—the FBI's witch hunt notwithstanding—she didn't have any reason to send someone to poke around their operation. It was almost comforting, knowing someone was out there dealing with situations that were, frankly, too small and local to ping off her alert systems.

At her next session, Barbara left a note for John at the front desk. _Lunch, my treat,_ and the name of a nearby hotel restaurant. She didn't have to wait long.

She smiled as he came in and launched her first salvo before he had a chance. "If Harold wanted to make contact, he didn't need to use your injury to do it."

John sat down across from her, at ease but still watchful. "I should have known the facility recommendation wasn't random," he said, a touch ruefully.

"He's your...employer?" she asked, hesitating slightly on the word.

"My...partner," he said, echoing the same pause.

Close enough. "It's very impressive, what he's accomplished."

"He said you were in a similar line of business, and to be respectful." John leaned back in his seat. "He doesn't offer that kind of...deference...to many people."

Barbara made a noncommittal sound as the waitress came by with water and menus. Once she had gone, Barbara said, "But he didn't care to meet me himself."

"He values his privacy."

She choked slightly on her sip of water. "Pot, kettle. But that's fine. If I needed to know, I would."

John regarded her carefully. "You don't intend to interfere."

It wasn't precisely a question. "No reason to. You do good work."

"So this meeting is..."

"Lunch." She smiled at him sweetly. "You look thin."

But by halfway through the meal Barbara found she was enjoying his dry humor and understated manner. The world she knew was full of...drama. John's straightforward approach was appealing, although the attendant body count gave her pause. He wasn't a casual killer, but refused to hesitate when lives were at stake.

She couldn't argue with that. Gotham, she thought acidly, would probably benefit from at least a brief application of those ideals. But if Harold had any sense he would already know better than to deploy John in Batman's city.

They weren't in Gotham now.

Toward the end of the meal John said abruptly, "It's been a while since I've had the opportunity to practice eskrima. Would you care to spar?"

She liked the assumption that she would be a worthy opponent. Given she'd been trained by Richard Dragon, she might even be able to teach him a thing or two. Maybe he could broaden her horizons as well. "I'd be delighted. We could both use the exercise."

"Private extended therapy?" he murmured.

And again, she appreciated both the diplomacy and the insinuation. "A mutually beneficial arrangement." She'd already decided she could suspend her private rule. She might not know everything about him, but she knew enough.

By the time they finished sparring, John's bare torso was soaked with sweat and his scars stood out in stark relief. Barbara didn't hesitate to invite him to one of her New York safe houses to reveal hers.

His mouth traveled over them with respect, and if her limitations caused him any pause, he was gracious enough not to show it.

She did make certain that he removed his earpiece, though. If Harold wanted to listen in, he'd need to ask first.


End file.
